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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap. _______ Copyright Xo. 

8heli: _>__^_ <^ ^^ 6^ 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



A 

iBooH of (Bornt^liyme^ 



BY. 



Vs/tllt(^rja t^eed te)unroy. 



I? 



Second Edition. 






LINCOLN, NEBRASKA 

University Publishing Company. 

1900 



L^ 



89481 



\t )}:>v»vy of Coo^r«^=»s 

; OEC 171900 

i J J Copyright entry 



«0 



SSCO^^D COPY 
Oe!i¥«>ed to 

OHOtR DIVISION 

DEC 21 190U 









-^KV^oO 



Copyrighted 1900 

BY 

University Publishing Co. 
All Rights Reserved. 



TO THE STATE I LOVE : 

And to hey people, these rJivnies 
are dedicated. : : : : : : : : 

— WILL L4 M REED D UNR O \ ' 



The western wind with nimble feet, 
Trips out a curious dance, 

To the music piped by a bobolink, 
Perclied near on a willow lance. 



F\ TMe of the <Bonien{5 
of ®orn "Poi^^el^. 

PAGE 

Foreword --------- ^ ^ 

The Veil of Dislance ------- 12 

To the First Nebraska ^4 

Reward ...------ 17 

A Corn Lullaby - - - - - ' " ^° 

A Prairie Vietv - ^9 

Recompense -20 

Today ^' 

Prairie Pastels — 

In Green ------ - - 22 

In Gold - - - - - - - - ^-3 

Thine Eyes - - -.- - - - - 2J 

The Unreturning -------- 26 

Progress 28 

The First Song -------- 30 

The River Platte '33 

A Prayer - - - 36 

To Live is Enough - 3^ 

Wind in the Corn - - - - - - -40 

Indian Plume - - - - - - - - 4'~ 

The Way of the World ------ 44 

Tomorrow --.------ 45 

The Song for /1/r - * 46 



Thou Art My Woild ------ ^7 

The Shadow Service - - - - - * - - 4S 

Prayer During Drouth ------ ^g 

The Sweetest Music - - .-'. . -30 

Gold is God -..-.... ^i 

Sandswept - - - - , - - - - - S~ 

To a Mummy - - - 53 

I Walked in I he Wood - - . - - - 55 

Dawn on the Plains - . . - - - j-^ 

77/^? Tryst ------.__ j-7 

Resignation -...-.,. jS' 

A West land Song - - - -- - -60 

Mary's Bedstraw -.....- Oi 

Hidden --------- (^^ 

After Ouuir Khayyam -----.- ^5 

Destiny - - - -66 

The Strength of Love - - - .. - - 6y 
The Mint .-.-----. 68 

The Meadoiv Lark ------- 6g 

Goldenrod --------- yj 

Prairie Pictures — 

Daivn - - - - - - - - -72 

Noon - - - - - - - - -73 

Night - - - - - - - - - y4 

7 'he Wheel of Fate - - - - - - - yj 

TJie L^and of Corn ------- ^(5 

Lillian --------- ^<5> 

The Prairies ---:----- yg 

Come, Soothing Sleep - - - - - - 81 

The Wesleyan Quartet - - - - - -82 

Aspiration - - - - - - - - 84 

The Pessimist - - - - - - - ' ^5 



PAGE 

The Rain on My luue ------ S6 

Today is Best .---...- Sy 
Huskin' Corn - - - - , - - - S8 

In Late October -------- go 

Thou -.-..-.-. gi 

Unsatisfied - - - - - - - - - gs 

Return of the Magdalene - - - - - g^ 

Jla Dolorosa - - - - - - - - gb 

Night --....... gy 

Noel - - . ------- gg 

November -..-.-... jqi 
Rest ---------- J02 

Loco CO - - - - - - - - - - lo^ 

Mother's Rag Carpet - - - - - - /oj 

Good Night, My Love - ■ - - - - - - joj 

The Old Unrest --..... jq§ 

The Place of Peace .-..-._ jog 
No Matter -------- jjq 

Resurrection - - - - - - - - - iii 

All is Good -------- JJ2 

We'll Meet Again - ^ - - - - - -114 

f Don't Much Care - - - - - - - iib 

The South Wind - - - - - - - - ji8 

Conventionality ----- - . jjg 

Nelia -.-..-... joo 

Violets ---------- J2I 

Pansies -----_-_. J22 

Pessimism - - - - - - - . -12? 



*-^^<^ 



Foreword. 

It" I could know that by my soiig 

Some toiler's burden I made lighter, 

If some wan sujBferer's bit of sky 
My singing- made a little brighter, 
I'd be content. 

If I could know some broken heart 

Were healed a trifle by my singing, 
Or that some pilgrim in despair 

Might through the night hear hope-bells ringing, 
I'd be content. 

To sing, and send my vagrant songs 
Awandering through the world were pleasure, 

If I but knew one halting line 
Were kept by some one as a treasure. 



II 



The Veil of Distance. 

When viewed at closer range the chasmed mountains, 

bleak and scarred, 
Lose all their beauty. Stern, forbidding and severe 

they rise, 
The playground where the gods have tossed the 

bowlders here and yon 
In giant playfulness. But out beneath the prairie 

skies, 
When back we turn to view the towering domes, a 

misty haze, 
A softened, tender mist, blots out the wounds and 

glorifies 
The ancient heavenward lifting peaks. , The distance 

weaves a veil 
That hides the scars, revealing naught but beauty to 

our eyes. 

And so it is in life. The rough and jagged past 

takes on 
A glory born of time, a haze that hides the bitter 

pain— 
The disappointments once so hard to bear — the cross 

of want — 
The loneliness — the sharpest thorn, ingratitude — the 

stain 



Of some great sin — the broken heart — the open grave 

— the scars 
That mar our lives; and back we look from out the 

present plain, 
And see a glory in the years gone by, forgetting that, 
Though veiled by distance-woven mists, the jagged 

rocks remain. 

The dull today, monotonous with its round of petty 

cares, 
Its uneventful hours, with its blinding dust of little 

things 
That dims our vision of the beauties close at hand — 

the clouds 
That hide the vaulted heaven from our faithless view 

— the stings 
Of scourges made of many tiny knotted cords of daily 

strife — 
These, too, will pass away, and in the light that dis- 
tance brings 
We'll see this present glorified, these level desert 

plains 
Transformed and full abloom, bejeweled with eternal 

springs. 



13 



To the First Nebraska. 

O, hark to the piercing cry of the fife, and hark to the 

roll of the drum, 
For they tell the tale of the soldiers bold as they 

merrily homeward come; 
With the clank of the sword and the flap of the flag, 

in their lines of bronze and blue, 
They tread the soil of home once more, the land of the 

leal and true: 

Back to the breasts of those who fed them, 
Back to the arms of those who bred them. 

Yet not all; 
Some lie dead in distant islands, . 
Where they fell on marsh and highlands, 

God bless them all. 

They wear no trappings of glittering splendor, nor 
medals of silver and gold, 

Their garments are war-torn and dingy, their accoutre- 
ments rusty and old; 

But the badges they wear are the scars they bear, the 
kingliest under the sun. 

For each is a pledge of a brave, true heart, and of vic- 
tories valiantly won. 
14 



They have followed the flag wherever it led and have 

guarded its spangled folds; 
They have added new glory and lustre to all the bright 

emblem holds; 
They have battled forever forward and have never 

slunk back in retreat, 
And never for once have their colors been trailed in 

the dust of defeat. 

They have sprinkled the soil of a foreign land witli 

the richest blood e'er was shed; 
They have shown to the world our fighting men, the 

staunchest the earth e'er bred; 
They have lifted up arms of invincible brawn and 

have fronted with faces of steel, 
While they watched through the death-smoke, lower- 
ing, the enemy falter and reel; 
Back to the breasts of those who fed them. 
Back to the arms of those who bred them, 

Yet not all; 
Some lie dead in distant islands. 
Where they fell on marsh and highlands, 
God bless them all. 

They have camped in the dreadful marshes and have 

marched in the tropic sun; 
They have seen their comrades sicken and die and 

have buried them one by one; 
15 



They have sighed at the loss of their leader, but never 

have faltered nor fled; 
With cheers for the noble living, they have mingled 

the dirge for the dead. 

They have bared their breasts to the flaming sword 

and have scorned the cannon's breath; 
They have fought on the fleld a fearful flght and have 

grappled with grisly death; 
They have bitten the dust of a hostile land and have 

weathered its shot and shell, 
And have cried aloud in an ecstacy as they knelt in 

the pits of hell. 

But their war and their warfare is over and the cry 

of the trumpet is still. 
And the roll of the drum's tattooing is the sound of a 

peaceful trill; 
Their swords are all sheathed in velvet and their guns 

are all harmless now, 
For the soft, white hand of an angel has smoothed out 
the war-furrowed brow: 
Back to the breasts of those who fed them, 
Back to the arms of those who bred them. 

Yet not all; 
Some lie dead in distant islands. 
Where they fell on marsh and highlands, 
God bless them all. 
i6 



Reward* 

In the hollow husks of our greatest losses 
Are seeds that will grow and blossom with gain; 

In the blackest cloud that the storm wind tosses 
Is a silver gift of refreshing rain. 

In the sharpest thorn that our anguish presses 
Is a healing balm for the wound it makes; 

In the bitterest cup that Fate possesses 

Is a sprinkle of sweet for the heart that breaks. 



17 



A Corn Lullaby* 

Hark to the summer rain in the corn! 

(Hush to sleep my haby) 
As faint as the call of an elf land horn ; 

(Hush to sleep my baby) 
The wind blows fresh from the rosy west. 
The birdie swings in his little brown nest, 
*Tis time for baby to go to rest, 

(Hush to sleep my baby). 

Hark to the crash of the hail in the corn! 

(Hush to sleep my baby) 
It leaves the stalks all stripped and shorn ; 

(Hush to sleep my baby) 
The birdie is under the downy breast 
Of the mother bird, whose beaten crest 
The hail drives hard, by storm winds pressed, 

(Hush to sleep my baby). 

Hark to the sigh of the wind in the corn ! 

(Hush to sleep my baby) 
The storm is dead and the calm is born ; 

(Hush to sleep my baby) 
Now snuggle up close to mother's breast, 
And ride away through dreams in quest 
Of the silent, stormless lands of rest, 

(Hush to sleep my baby). 
i8 



A Pfaifie View, 

Afar, afar in endless levels 

The prairies reach from my sod-house door 
Afar the winds hold madcap revels 

Along the grassy sod-paved floor. 

Beyond the aching eye's deep straining 

Yet other levels boundless lie, 
And farther still is yet remaining 

A floor that meets the bending sky. 



19 



Recompensci 

From this dull world of ours, a stairway leads 
To where a cloudless noonday gleams; 

Each soul may mount the viewless ladder, theie 
Discovering- his land of dreams. 

Imagination keeps the low-browed door, 

Unlocks it at each man's request; 
He guides the traveler up the shining stair, 

And plants a blossom in each breast. 

From poverty and woe and wasting want, 
From heartaches and from numbing pains, 

The doorway swings wide open, and to view 
There bursts the dazzling sun-kissed plains. 

The veriest fool who mumbles in his hut 
May leave his rags and filth behind 

And view a splendid scene, whose endless chai-m 
Would strike his richer neighbor blind. 

A question, then, if it were best to be 
A dullard, swathed in stifling gold. 

Or some poor garret-pinioned dreamer, whom 
No sordid chains of earth may hold? 



Today. 

The times are full of restless discontent. 
From old beliefs our modern minds dissent, 

The new are not yet formed— at sea, our sails 
By every wayward, wavering wind are bent. 

The dreams of yesterday are crystalized 
In solid fact — the truth in myth disguised 

Is stripped of all its mummery and mavsk, 
The hopes of all the ages realized. 

The sacred mysteries of life are masked 
No longer to the mind— the questions asked 

By myriad milions in the aeons gone 
Are answered by the school boy at his task. 

Along the upward way we humans plod 
With Hope ahead, like some divining rod, 

And as we grope, we reach and grasp. 
In darkness though it be, the hand of God. 



Prairie Pastels. 



IN GREEN, 

Across the level prairies, faint at first 
As tint of opal, creeps a tinge of green. 

That overcomes at last the gray and brown, 
As tides the sands that girt the ocean's sheen. 

And ever as the verdant ti*e moves on, 
The bending skies grow softer overhead, 

And near the shallow stream that flows through sand 
The stunted willow lifts its lance of red. 

On broken gumweed sings the meadow lark, 

His song seems calling to the stirring earth 
' To loosen from their prison in the mold 

The prairie flowers to deck the spring-babe's birth. 

And now and then a sonorous call comes down 
From out the sun-kissed air, as northward fly 

The wild geese in an arrow huge and black, 
The only shade against the azure sky. 



The shimmering sunshine floods the earth and air 
As with a bath of gold, the light winds lift 

The fragrance of the grass and bear it far 
To s«me bare land, and leave their precious gift. 

As far as eye can reach the level land, 
Its floor unbroken by a rift or seam, 

Outstretches till it meets the curving sky, 
A world as fair as ever graced a dream. 



IN GOLD. 

The amber cornfields toss their tasseled heads, 
The goldenrod shines yellow in the sun, 

The thistle shakes its hoary brush, and spreads 
Its silken seeds from dawn till day is done 



In stubblefields the prairie chickens hide, 
And blackbirds flock around the stacks of wheat. 

The modest plover seeks the prairies wide, 
Far from the hunter's sacrilegious feet. 

23 



The cobwebs weave a net across the sky, 
A haze half hides the distant low-browed hill> 

The wild geese slowly soaring southward cry» - 
And hear the answering curlew, sharp and shrill. 



"Phe nights are long and cool and still, 

The breeze scarce aids the falling yellow leaf, 

The moon transforms to silver at her will 
The golden fields where rules the sun so brief. 



A solemn brooding hush rests on the land, 
The garnered harvest waits the will of men, 

A look of plenty greets on every hand, 
A hint of rest on field, and hill, and glen. 

■ is. ^ . 

A sudden glory crowns the dying year, 
A sudden hush of parting fills the air. 

As one by one the wintry signs appear, 

The days grow shorter, but more wondrous fair, 



24 



Thine Eyes. 

Within the depths of thy full orbs of brown 
I read a world of love no speech can tell; 
"^ The stammering tongue can no more voice the 

sweet, elusive thing 
Thine eyes give forth than motleyed, grinning clown 
Can cast a charm, or weave a magic spell. 
Or midnight raven ravish with his harsh attempts 
to sing. 

Thy voice is low and wonderfully sweet; 
Its liquid tones are softer than the song 
Of yonder lark that mounts the viewless ladder of 
the skies; 
And yet 'tis but a preface, dull and long, 
A tiresome thing, compared to that rare treat. 
The book I read between the fringed covers of thine 
eyes. 



25 



The Unfeturnifig* 

Amidst the plaudits for these heroes coming home, 
A sigh for those who fell — the unreturning braves — 

Ipon these fadeless garlands drop a tear, for those 
Who sleep in distant lands, alone in alien graves. 

Amidst this glory and this high acclaim, let sound 
One note of sorrow in a plaintive minor strain. 
One tone of dirge-like music in the paean of praise, 
For those whose names are numbered with the noble 
slain. 

For them the lights are out, the rattling drums are 
still, 
No reveille can ever reach their dust-stopped ears, 
Their hero hearts are pulseless and their feet are 
bound 
In death's unyielding chains, for all the future 
years. 



But though their hearts are dust and silence seals 
their lips, 

Their deeds will live, for soldier valor never dies; 
Their lustrous names are writ on Fame's eternal page 

In living characters, as constant as the skies. 



Then 'midst the folds of yonder flag they loved so 
well, 
Entwine a sable cord, in memory of the dead, 
And as the living heroes tread the soil of home, 
For those who march unseen, make hare and bow 
the head. 



27 



Progress. 

The world forever marches upward through the night, 
For progress is the never-changing law of God ; 

Today the generations climb the heights, where fear 
Deterred the generations gone as with a rod 

To smite them blind; where we leave off our upward 
strife, 
The generations yet to come will skyward plod. 

Each day that dawns new wonders burst upon our 
sight 
And new astonishments confound the soul; 
The world expands, and with the vast, expanding 
world 
The minds of men in wider channels roll ; 
Our little visions cannot span the endless view 
That leads through ranging time to man's su- 
premest goal. 



28 



We gaze wide-eyed upon the onward course of time, 
And take our places in the never-ending show ; 

We play our little parts as best we may, and then 
We end our little idle mummeries and go. 

But whither? Why? The questions ever on our lips; 
No man hath ever yet stood forth to cry "I know!" 



We learn from God's great patience through the flood 
of years 
.To live our lives, to take what comes, and calmly 
wait; 
For God works out His purposes with pigmy men, 
Who cannot see His pattern stretching vast and 
great; 
We move as His great hand may will to have us move. 
And find our places in His plan, or soon, or late. 



29 



The First Song. 

'Twas morn in Eden, and the summer sun 
Shone round and full above the trees ; 
The sky, in which the shadows of the night 
Still hung amidst the splendors of the dawn 
Like wreathing smoke in flames, was opal-tinged 
And like the pearly lining of a shell. 



The air was laden with the holy scent 

Of opening buds : the blossoms that adorned 

The first great spring, when new-create the world 

Was hurled along the viewless paths of space 

From God's all powerful hand, and ravished with 

The dulcet chorus of the golden-throated birds. 



Through bowering branches overhead the rays 
Of dawn crept softly as a summer sigh 
And lighted on the dew-wet eyes of Eve, 
Who slept upon a bed of fern-strewn moss 
Beneath, and slowly from the thrall of dreams 
She roused and flashed her creamy lids apart. 



3G 



Then, springing like a hind, she stood full-length, 

Her hair a golden robe around her form 

Of perfect mold; the velvet flesh beneath 

Like blushing roses under strands of gold ; 

Her eyes still full of haunting dreams; her hands 

Still idly clasping fadeless Eden blooms. 

The lifting breeze blew coyly through the leaves 

And made a wider rift, through which the sun 

His radiant glances poured; and, shining like 

A pillar wrought of pearl and finest gold. 

She stood, a vision fair as dawn, as pure 

And stainless as a bud still wrapt in green. 



Around her every sound was full of joy; 

The rippling rill that spilled its silvery flood 

Beside her bed of moss, the swaying trees 

O'er head, the whispering winds that kissed the 

flowers, 
The birds with bursting throats, in one great chord 
Had blent their manifold enraptured notes. 

Then suddenly the woman felt with 

Her heart a joy that ne'er before 

Had found expression, and her throat began 

To swell, and through her lips there came a sound 

31 



Of rarest melody, so pure and clear 

That every other sound was hushed in awe. 

It echoed through the garden paths and lanes, 

And wonderingly the beasts crept near to hear, 

While through the morn came sounds of rushing 

wings, 
And trooping angels glowed amidst the green; 
The very heavens seemed to bend and bow 
To hear the strains of earth's first human song. 



And Adam, lost amidst the tangled brakes, 
Astonished, heard the marvelous voice, and in 
An ecstacy he grasped a hollow reed 
To blow thereon a wild accompaniment; 
'Twas thus the earth first heard the voice 
Of music and her noble sister, song. 



32 



,Thc l^ver Platte, 



The broad old Platte, with shifting isles of sallow 

sand, 
Enwinds like a silver ribbon, blotched with spots of 

gold, 
Throughout the grass-paved floors of marshy prairie 

land. 

In summer, low the grasses bend 
Their emerald tinged with gold; they dip 
And fringe along the marge, and send 
A shadow in the depths that makes 
A boundless dome beneath the bed 
Through which the river's waters wend. 

-J 
And in the tall, rank grass that grows 

Along the bank the blackbirds build 

Their nests, and soft and tender shows 

The pale blue egg against the gray; 

And where the water shallower flows, 

The bittern wades and catches frogs. 

Found basking where the sunlight glow?. 



33 



On either side the river, lie 
The fields of emerald, nodding corn 
And waving seas of wheat and rye, 
And in between are willow groves, 
And humble homes set high and dry, 
With straw-built sheds and stacks of hay 
And herds of cattle grazing by. 

Like jewels strewn upon the ground 

The wild flowers shine amidst the green; 

The air is ravished with the sound 

Of song; the waters lisp and kiss 

The banks; with murmurings profound 

They pour toward the distant sea 

Through boundless prairies reaching round. 

In winter, sober gray the grass. 
The birds' nests empty, leprous-like 
The river, scarred and scaled the mass 
Of ice, wounded here and there 
With bars of sand, and yet like glass 
In places, smooth and clear, the sun 
Reflecting like a shield of brass. 



34 



And when the summer on her bed 

Of death lies down and autumn comes. 

The wild ducks by some instinct led 

From realms of air drop down and SY\-im 

In big black arrows on the spread 

Of waters till the flock to flight 

Is put by showers of flying lead. 

Then all the prairies change; behold 
The sun with Midas' touch transforms 
The grass and corn, and fold on fold 
Gay Autumn's garments trail across 
The level lands; the river bold, 
With silver, cuts its onward way 
Through fields of amber and of gold. 



35 



A Prayer, 

Omnipotent Lord, whose all beholding eye 
Foresees the end before our race is run, 

Oh, grant us courage and the needful strength 
To stumble onward till the goal is won. 

May we not waste our might in idle strife, 
Nor burn it in fierce passion's fitful fires; 

Yea, strengthen all our half-formed purposes, 
In mercy weaken all our wrong desires. 

We struggle blindly, Lord, against thy will ; 

Forgive our dullness, nor chastise us long; 
The half our sins are but our mad mistakes, 

And at their base was no intent to wrong. 



Remember, Lord, that we are only dust, 
And scarcely understand thy drossless gold; 

Our coarseness cannot comprehend thy fine ; 
Imperfect, we can never fill a perfect mold. 



36 



Oh, Lord, our human loves and hates are strong, 
Our human wills are wonderfully frail, 

Our utmost longings are to do thy will; 
Forgive us when we miserably fail. 

We strive, and all our striving comes to naught; 

We sin, repent, and sin, and then repent; 
Our paths are marked by falls and risings up; 

Piece out with thy great might our good intent. 

Omnipotent Lord, whose all pervading might 
Upholds the universe, vouchsafe thy aid; 

In pity and forgiveness look upon 
This world of wayward weaklings thou hast made. 



37 



To Live is Enough. 

Just to live is enough — to see the blue-domed sky 

Unclouded on a dreamy summer day; 
To view the earth wrapped in its robe of green, 

The changing sea, now blue, now v/hite, now gray ; 
To see the silver rivers lace the lands; 

The frowning mountains capped with gleaming 
snow ; 
The jewelled prairies, shadowless and bright: 

The opalescent dawn, the sunset glow ; 
To live, and see, is enough. 



Just to live is enough — to hear the torrents leap 

Untrammeled from the overhanging wall; 
To hear the surging and the sobbing sea; 

The thunders roar, the avalanches fall; 
The twitter of the wren at early morn ; 

The sighing of the breeze as eve grows late ; 
The peal of laughter from the light of heart; 

The gentle talking of the lover to his mate ; 
To live, and hear, is enough. 



38 



Just to live is enougli — to smell the rose at dawn ; 

To feel the rain upon your face at night; 
To brush the dew from hedge and jewelled lawn ; 

To watch the skylark in his heavenward flight; 
To drift and dream upon the river's flow ; 

To listen to the cooing of the dove; 
To hold a tender rose-leaf hand in yours; 

To kiss the dewy lips of one you love; 
To live, and love, is enough. 



-59 



Wind in the Corn. 

I love to lie in the prairie grass, 

As the sun's noon-heat is born, 
And list to the lisp of the lashing leaves, 

As the wind blows through the corn. 

For the sound of the wind is soft and sweet, 

As the sigh of a child in sleep, 
As soothing and calm as the drifting dark 

That falls from the bluey deep. 

It does not moan as it does in the pines, 

Nor wail as it does on the sea, 
But sings a song, faint, far, and low— 

A marvelous melody, 



40 



Indian Plume. 

In days gone by, when red-men roamed these prairies 

wide, 
So runs the Indian legend, told with Indian pride, 
There came a plague among them one dread year 
And filled their savage breasts with abject fear; 
It spared not young nor old — the laughing child 
Or frowning chief — the maiden, coy and mild; 
And lusty youth — all, all who felt the breath 
Of this fell plague, were marked at once for death. 
The women wailed beside their dead, 
And stalwart warriors paled and fled, 
Yet still the plague raged, grim and dread. 

And in this tribe where reigned this scourge of death 

and gloom, 
There lived a tender maid — they called her "Indian 

Plume;" 
Her voice was gentle as the summer wind, 
Her every action graciously inclined. 



41 



Her eyes were soft as deer eyes, while her hair 

Was raven black; her face was ruddy fair 

As e'er the western sun shone down upon ; 

Her step as light and springy as the fawn, 

And all who knew her loved her well, 

With a love they had no tongue to tell, 

This soft-eyed, soft-voiced Indian belle. 



She walked among the dead and dying like a saint; 

She smoothed each brow, and heard each sad and 
sighing plaint; 

She moistened parching lips and soothed the fears 

Of wailing children, hushing them to sleep 

With tuneful melodies rich and deep; 

She folded o'er each breathless breast 

The stiffened hands of those who sank to rest. 
While still the plague raged on and on, 
From dusky darkness till the dawn. 
And through the day till day was gone. 

At last the wise men of the tribe in solemn state 
Proclaimed the burning anger of their spirit great, 
And said that to appease his wrath the doom 
Of death must be pronounced on Indian Plume. 



42 



The maiden heard, and grasped a gleaming knife, 
For them she sacrificed her precious life, 
And where her blood was spilled upon the gromid 
A crimson flower the Indians later found. 
They named the precious, glowing bloom 
In honor of the maiden's noble doom — 
The prairie's glory, Indian Plume. 



And thus the deadly plague was stayed 
When died this noble Indian maid. 
And o'er the summer prairie shines, 
In tints of ruddy, running wines, 
This well-loved, blood-bathed bloom, 
In memory of fair Indian Plume. 



43 



The Way of the World* 

In youth his heart beat high with hope, 
With a dashing hand he wrote his rhymes, 

He courted Fame with a winsome smile, 

But she snubbed the youth a thousand times. 

In later years, in grief and pain, 
He sang to the world his hopes and fears, 

But Fame still held herself aloof, 
Nor deigned to heed his prayers and tears. 

Fame came at last when he was old, 
And cried: "To win my favor thou 

Must write in thine heart's blood thy thought, 
Then will my glory wreathe thy brow." 

At last with death-dulled ears he heard. 
Too late, the people's loud acclaim; 

His blinded eyes saw not the place 
Whereon Fame carved his deathless name. 



44 



Tomorrow* 

Tomorrow and tomorow, so we say, 
Tomorrow filled with hopes we highly prize; 

Tomorrow is an ignis fatuus, 
A dream we mortals never realize. 

We peer before us through the blinding mists, 
And seem to glimpse tomorrow's rosy dawn — 

A fleeting vision, fading from our sight 
Before we are aware the dream is gone. 

Beyond us, dancing like a butterfly 
Across a sunny flowered meadowland, 

Tomorrow, in her lucent rainbow robes, 
Rludes the eager grasping of the hand. 

Tomorrow is a phantom, clothed in dreams, 
Forever wooing us with cunning wiles, 

But when we reach to clasp her in our arms, 

She fades, and leaves us ravished with her smiles. 



45 



The Song for Me. 

Let those who will, sing of the sea, 
But the song- for me, the song for me, 
Js a song of the waving, fragrant grass 
Aswept by the winds as they swiftly pass, 
Where the flowers bloom wild, and fresh, and free! 
Oh, that is the song for me, 
The song for me! 

Let those who will, sing of the sea, , 

But the song for me, the song for me, 
Is a song of the treeless stretch of green, 
Where never a shadow may be seen, 
Where the birds fly wild, and swift, and free! 
Oh, that is the song for me. 
The song for me! 

Let those who will, sing of the sea. 
But the song for me, the song for me, 
Is a song of the prairies wild and wide. 
With their ever-changing, stormless tide, 
Where the winds sweep wild, and wide, and free! 
Oh, that is the song for me, 
The song for me! 



46 



Thou Att My World. 

Thine eyes are full of haunting shadows, strange as 
death ; 
They make my very soul within me shake; 
Thy voice can stir my heart like music heard at night 

Across the silvery waters of a lake; 
My lips, when pressed against thine own, are bound 
with chains 
That I have neither will nor wish to break. 

Thy tangled hair holds all the sunshine I desire; 

Thy sylph-like form embodies all the grace ; 
When fondly I enfold thee in my hungry arms, 

And hold thee closely in my strong embrace, 
I gaze upon thine eyes, thy lips, thy hair, and find 

The world hath narrowed down to tky fair face. 



47 



The Shadow Setvice, 

In the gray old church when the twilight falls, 

The shadows file in for prayers, 
And a phantom priest comes in from the dark. 

And stands on the altar stairs. 

The acolytes glide through misty doors, 

With censors in their hands, 
And a choir of echoes of songs once sung, 

In the shadowy choir-loft stands. 

The priest lifts up his wavering hands, 
And blesses the kneeling throngs, 

While the phantom incense seems to rise, 
And mingle with phantom songs. 

Then priest, and people, and acolytes troop 

Adown the aisle to the door. 
And the dark comes in with its noiseless tread. 

When the service of shades is o'er. 



4S 



Prayer During Drouth. 



Oh, God, send rain! 

The panting fields with parched, protruding lips 
Cry out for rain. The wrinkled plains are hot 
And blistered, fanned hy feverish winds, and bald 
Of verdure. The seared and shriveled grass that 

bears 
The marks of last year's withering kiss, upsends 
A prayer. The dried-out beds of streams, silent 
Of waters, send a piteous plea for drink; 
Oh, God, send rain, send rain! 

Oh, God, send rain! 

The toilers of the fields with hopeless hands 
Throw broadcast in the powdered earth the seed 
That finds no dew to kiss it into life; 
Within the steps of last year's failure treads 
The plodding plowman, wearing out his life 
To call the promised bread from out the soil, 
And finds but chaff. From every stunted tuft 
Of withered grass, from every fruitless stock 
Of corn, from every sproutless seed, from 
Every barren field, from every living thing 
Comes up a cry for rain: 
Oh, God, send rain, send rain! 



49 



The Sweetest Music. 

There's a music in the patter of the raiu, 
As it falls so gently downward through the night. 

Just a soothing, quiet, sleepy, soft refrain, 
A lullaby to put your wakefulness to flight. 

There's a music in the soughing of^the breeze, 
Just a singing, hardly louder than a sigh, 

As it lazily goes humming through the trees, 
Fanning coolly on your forehead as you lie. 

There's a music in the babble of the brook, 
As it ripples brightly onward in its flov/, 

Where the ferns and modest violets bend and look 
In the limpid, lisping waters down below. 

There's a music in the piping of the thrush, 
Just as sweet as any sound you ever heard, 

And you listen and you wish all else would hush 
Save the singing of the russet-coated bird. 

There's a music in the cooing of the dove, 
As it struts around its nest-mate in the shade 

But the music in the voice of one you love 
Is by far the sweetest music ever made. 

50 



Gold is God. 

To him, who holds a plenty in his grasp, 
The fawning world stoops low in servile fear, 

And heeds nor hears, no more than idle winds, 
The orphan's cry or widow's scalding tear. 

The curse pronounced of old in Eden's green 
Is lightened for the idle, pampered rich, 

And double burdens piled upon the backs 
Of men who struggle blindly in the ditch. 

The rich man shirks the tithing of the tax, 
And pays no duty on his broidered cloak, 

But on the poor man's rags is laid a weight 
That bends his neck beneath a grievous yoke. 

The corporations, drunk and mad with greed, 
Are robbing womanhood of priceless name, 

And children's blood and sweat of starving men 
Are changed to gold in coining mints of shame. 



5T 



Sandswept, 

A windswept, sandswept, prairie view 
O'er-arched by a sky of gray, 

A birdless desert, grim and bare, 
Where wind-cubs romp and play. 

No sign of man, no sign of life. 
Save tracks in the drifting sand, 

But half effaced, of skulking beasts 
That scud o'er the dreary land. 

A plain outstretching beyond the eye. 
Where wolves and coyotes dwell; 

A cheerless level of wind-combed sand 
As flat as the floors of hell. 



5a 



To a Mummy. 

Thou crouching figure wrapped 
In silence deep and vast, 

Unseal thy dry, dumb lips 
And tell me of the past. 



Tell me what lover sighed 
His love-vows in thine ear, 

So fiercely, softly, faint, 
That thou alone couldst hear. 

What arms about thy neck 
Were passionately thrown? 

What lips in fervid love 
Were pressed upon thine own? 

How beat that heart of thine 
With joy supremely sweet, 

As low thy lover knelt 
In suppliance at thy feet? 



53 



What were thy joys, thy fears? 

What caused thee smiles or sighs? 
What laughter didst thou have? 

What tears bedewed thine eyes? 

Thy lips move not, and yet 
I know thy joy and pain; 

This human heart of mine , 
Hath made thy story plain. 



54 



I Walked in the Wood, 

I walked in the wood one summer day 
And heard a wild-bird singing; 

His tender notes through forest glades 
Exultingly were ringing. 

I said in my heart: "That bird must be 

Happy beyond all measure; 
I will seek the bird and take him home — 

He will always give me pleasure." 

But alas! I found a cruel thorn 
In the breast of the bird was driven, 

And all that wondrous melody 
Was from such anguish given. 

I took the thorn from out his breast, 
But the wild-bird's song ceased ringing; 

The thorn in his breast had been the cause 
Of all his tender singing. 



55 



Dawfl on the Plains* 

A vast oppressive silence, deep as death; 

The sky above, faint sprinkled with a few 
Dim, fading stars that feehly flicker, like 

Fireflies in the early evening dew. 

A dusky darkness over all the plain; 

The misty distances unending lie; 
The grayish shadows of the night-kissed land 

Are blended with the shadows of the sky. 

A sudden glory floods the whitening east; 

The curtain of the night is rent in twain 
Like to the veil that parted in the Holy Place, 

When on Calvary the Lamb of God was slain. 

And in this glow the tossing plumes of morn 
Are shaking splendors through the pearly sky, 

While through the ambient air there bursts a sound 
Of wild-birds singing as they wing on high. 

At last above the jeweled plain appears 
The dazzling, regal ruler of the day, 

And every bush is like the one of old, 
Where God was, and the plains a place to pray. 

56 



The Tfyst* 



Under the starlight's silvery shine 
Held I her little hand in mine; 

White, white as her maiden brow 

Under the gold of her curls, 
Soft, soft as the milky foam 

Formed where the brooklet swirls, 
Dear, dear as a casket of shell 
Filled with a strand of pearls. 

Under the starlight's silvery shine 
Pressed I her pouting lips to mine; 
Red, red as the summer dawn 

Gilding the east with gold, 
Sweet, sweet as the heart of a rose 

Just as its leaves unfold, 
Fond, fond as the last farewell 
After life's tale is told. 

Under the starlight's silvery shine 
Raised I her love-lit eyes to mine; 

Bright, bright as the beaming star 

Gemming the brow of night, 
Clear, clear as the limpid pool 

Lilied with spotless white, 
Filled, filled with a deathless love, 
Pure as a ray of light. 
57 



Resignation. 

When across the rose-strewn path that we had hopetl 
to tread 

Some rude, unlooked-for barrier lifts its wall, 
From out our heavy grief we are wont to weave 

For the whole wide world a sable pall. 

When on our brows the thorns of disappointment 
press, 

And circumstances drive us in a stony path, 
We rail against the world, and scoff at hope. 

And blame high heaven in our fretful wrath. 

But though the disappointments come, and smarting 
thorns. 

And all our hopes lie as a broken wreck, 
Yet must we learn that in the sorrow of this world 

One heart's sorrow is but a tiny fleck. 



5B 



For there hare been since first the human heart 
Began to beat its own soft muffled knell 

Great sorrows that have reached to heaven itself, 
And down to the very gates of hopeless hell. 



And so when sorrow lays a heavy hand upon your 
head, 

And circumstances lash you with a scourge of pain. 
Know that your lot is but the common lot of man, 

A part of the world's great, solemn, alto strain. 



59 



Hidden. 

In each husk that hides the tiniest seed 

Is a pattern we cannot see ; 
In each acorn cup is folded up 

The plan of a great oak tree. 

In each bud enclosed in its mask of green 

Is a bloom that is yet to be; 
In each house of clay is hidden away 

An immortality. 



60 



Mary's Bedstraw. 



The Germans have a legend quaint and old 
That tells a story of that tuft of gold 

We call the goldenrod ; 
They twine this flower with the holy morn 
On which in Bethlehem the Christ was born— 

The blessed Son of God. 

They say that on the bed where Mary lay 
This golden flower gleamed amidst the hay, 

And strewed the humble cave; 
It lent the only glory to the place 
That housed the Savior of the human race — 

A golden bed and pave. 



6r 



A Wcstland Song- 

They sing grand songs of the booming sea, 
Of its foam-flecked, moon-drawn tides. 

Of its storm-lashed waves that plunge the reefs : 
Of its calmer moods, when slides 

The playful sea on the sallow beach, 
Whereon the seaweed rides. 



They sing of the mountains frowning bold, 

Their awful peaks held high, 
Bnfleeced with clouds their changeless heads 

Relentless piercing the sky; 
In far inaccessible heights and crags 

The eagles wheel and fly. 



But the sea is treacherous, cold and deep; 

It sends its maddened waves 
To overwhelm, and its lovers find 

In its deeps their wandering graves; 
And the white ships manned by skeleton crews 

Find ports in mermaid caves. 



62 



And the mountains are wild and full of death: 

They hurl their rocks below 
And crush the humans who climb along 

Their ribs to reach the snow, 
And shake their angry sides, deep scarred, 

Where the torrents lunge and flow. 



But I sing a song of the prairies v/ide, 
That are boundless, wild and free, 

Where the grasses wave in stormless tides. 
And the winds sing loud in glee, 

As over the emerald floors they trip 
In a dance of witchery. 



A flower-jeweled, grass-clothed land. 

With never a roof but the sky, 
No shade but the moving shades of the clouds, 

Whose gloom soon hurries by, 
No storms save those of the western winds, 

That bluster awhile, then die. 



63 



i sing a song of the westiand wild. 
Where the buffalo grave-plots lie, 

Where the tramping cattle shake the sod 
And the cranes and curlews fly, 

Where the slinking coyote skulks and scuds 
Through the sage-brush gray and dry. 

A song of freedom, of unrestraint, 

Of life, deep, full and glad, 
Of no death-lurking seas that moan 

And make my soul grow sad, 
Or mountain heights whose frowning fronts 

Unpitying drive me mad. 



After Omar Khayyam^ 

We strive for fame — pray tell me what is fame' 
A little clapping of the hands — a name 

Upon the tongues of men— a fitful fire, 
And then a wind that quenches fire and flame. 



We all are weak and made of common dust, 
The God within us linked with vulgar lust, 

The spirit ever ^^arring with the flesh, 
Till back within the earth our bones are thrust. 



^>5 



Destiny. 

As through, life's labyrinth we grope, 
Sometimes we lose our guide-star hope, 
And later blunderingly find 
'Twas providence that made us blind. 



As through the shadow-haunted night 
We climb the rugged mountain height, 
Stupendous failures often rise 
And bear us on them to the skies. 



66 



The Strength of Love* 

Is love but a spider's thread, 
That one rude blast may sever? 

Nay, 'tis a cable, iron-strong, 
God-wrought, to last forever. 



67 



The Mint, 

The sun and the rain and the dew are coined 

In the mint of the summer days 
Into gold of the gathered hoards of grain, 

And the gleaming ears of the maize. 



68 



The Meadow Lafk< 

As flashing light across the midnight sky, 
So rings above the silent, level plain 

The lark's full-throated cry; 

A thrillant song, that pierces like a pain, 

Then softens to a sigh. 

It falls with sudden sweetness on the ear 
From out the^ gloom, this tender, tuneful song 

In cadence full and clear; 

Each note athrill with heart-break fond and long. 

Now far away, now near. 

And through the air all laden with the scent 
Of bursting buds and fragrant, waving grass. 

With glinting dews besprent. 
The joyful birds in splendid chorus pass 

Their songs in concert blent. 



G9 



'Tis thus the sun arises o'er the plain, 
A thousand throats of gold to give him hail 

In juhilant refrain; 
And as he westward burns his glowing trail, 

Triumphant grows the strain. 

There is no song that thrills the pulsing air 
With half the brilliance of this happy bird, 

Untouched by grief and care; 

A song that fills the spirit when 'tis heard 

With peace that follows prayer. 



70 



Goldenfod* 

Some angels must have been at play 
Upon the earth one summer day, 
And e'er they took their homeward flight 
To realms on realms of whirling light, 
Let fall upon the emerald sod 
These yellow sprays of goldenrod; 
Or else, perhaps, their garments wrought 
With fine celestial gold had caught 
Upon the tall, thick stems of grass 
As they essayed the fields to pass, 
And lo! the weeds of earth became 
With bright, resplendent gold aflame; 
Or else, while trooping through the gate, 
One playful spirit, being late, 
Threw down upon the smiling land 
A handful of the heavenly sand. 



71 



Pfaifie Pictures* 

DAWN, 
'Tis dawn — a tender sky 

Of pearly gray and rose, 
The birds fly, dewy-winged, 

A new wind faintly blows. 

A floor of flooded gold, 

Unmarred by shade or gloom, 
Besplashed with colors bold 

Of the fireweed's gaudy bloom. 

A gray lark on a weed, 
A passionate little trill, 

A winged, sudden speed, 
Then all is hushed and still. 

The sun above the grass, 
The sky a boundless blue, 

The plain a jeweled mass, 
All diamonds of dew. 



NOON. 

'Tis noon — a sky of brass, 
With flaming winds that run, 

A reach of shrivelled grass 
Beneath a burning sun. 

A whitened heap of bones, 
A skull with caverned eyes 

That holds a torpid snake, 
As ghastly Avhite it lies. 

A bird's nest on the ground, 
Two eggs, the sky as blue, 

A stillness vast, profound, 
Where sleep on silence grew. 



73 



NIGHT. 

'Tis sundown— shadows creep 
On gloomy prairies gray, 

The night winds lisp and sweep. 
And swallows dart away. 

A sod-house, grassy, old 

And doorless, dark, forlorn, 

With glassless windows bold, 
Like sockets, eyeless torn. 

A lonely cross of wood 
Fast crumbling to decay, 

A mute reminder, shows 

That man has passed this way. 

All shadows, doom and blight, 
A blackness, deep despair, 

A flowerless, starless night, 
A boundless, birdless air. 



74 



The Wheel of Fate, 

The wheel of fate forever turns its slow/ relentless 

round, 
And some cling laughing to its upper sun-washed 

bound, 
While others grovel 'neath its ponderous weight upon 

the ground. 

But they who laugh must some day feel its crushing, 

ruthless weight, 
And take their places writhing on the. ground; but 

soon or late 
The wheel brings uppermost the broken ones, for such 

is fate. 



75 



The Land of Corn* 

Far inland from the raging sea, 
With its boom, and rush, and roar. 

There lies a land wide, wide and green, 
As flat as a dancing floor; 

'Tis Nebraska, the land of corn. 

The sun just seems to love that land, 
For it shines the whole year through, 

And the skies smile down upon her plains 
Serenely calm and blue, 

O'er Nebraska, the land of corn. 

And the prairies are clad for many a mile 
With the tossing plumes of corn, 

And the fields of wheat wave like a sea 
Of green on a summer morn, 

In Nebraska, the land of corn. 



76 



A man may wander far away 
From his old Nebraska home, 

But his heart will long by night and day, 
Wherever he dares to roam, 

For Nebraska, the land of corn. 



We love that land with fervent love, 

All we who tread her soil, 
And we pray God's blessings on the heads 

Of the men who live and toil 

In Nebraska, the land of corn. 



11 



Lillian^ 

An aureole of gold above a brow 

As smooth and fair as the lily's liniug; 
Two eyes serene and deeply, calmly blue, 

The azure of the skies outshining. 
Her cheeks are tinted like the prairie rose, 

Soft penciled by some fairy finger; 
Her lips are like twin rosebuds dipped in dew, 

Where smiles and laughter love to linger. 



The Prairies* 

I love the wide, wide prairies, 
Where the western breezes blow. 

And amidst the tremulous grasses 
The fragile wild flowers grow. 

Where the gopher whistles shrilly 
Beside his new-made mound, 

And over the level distance 
The cry of the cranes resound. 



Where the curlew and the plover 
Build nests on the tufted sod, 

And the meadow lark upsoaring 
Sings joyful hymns to God. 



Where, with a joy transcendent. 
The melodious bobolink. 

With a chain of jeweled music, 
Seems heaven and earth to link. 



79 



1 love the level prairies, 
Where no shadow ever shrouds 

The candid, smiling landscape, 

Save the hiirrjing shade of clouds. 



Where the dew, and rain, and sunlight. 
And the birds, and the very air 

Seem one great poem, proclaiming 
That God is everywhere. 



80 



Come, C Soothing Sleep* 

Come, soothing sleep, soft sandaled through the halls 

Of night and drop thy poppy-dews upon 

Mine eyes, and blot the great round world from sight ; 

Come muffle up mine ears with silence till all 

The grating sounds that mar the day shall hush. 

Give surcease from the carking care that haunts 

My brain; strew seeds of dreams 

That soon or late will grow and burst to roseate 

bloom. 
Come, healer of all wounds — soother of all pain, 
And bring thy balm for broken hearts. 
O scatter dew upon my fevered brain, so full 
Of wild unrest; come, sweet forgetfulness — 
Oblivious silence — transient death, and give 
My troubled soul an hour of peace. 



8i 



The Wcslcyan Otiartci 

Yer blood jest gits ter runnin' like a freshet in th' 
spring, 

When they sing; 
Yew catch a little hint of how th' bells in heaven ring, 

When they sing; 
An' yer mem'ry takes yew back ercross th' half for- 
gotten years, 
An' yer lips will be a smilin' while yer eyes are filled 
with tears, 

When they sing. 

They sorter make a hammick of ther music fur yer 
soul, 

When they sing; 
An' they set th' thing tew swingin' with a captivatin' 
roll, 

When they sing; 
An' yew jes set thar an' hug yerself a gazin' inter 

space, 
While th' tenors pipe ther treble with th' rumble of 
th' bass, 

When they sing. 



82 



Yew settle back an' cross yer legs an' heave a little 
sigh, 

When they sing; 
An' yer soul goes chasin' rainbows in th' land of By 
an' By, 

When they sing; 
An' yer heart jest sorter shivers and yer eyes cloud up 

fer rain, 
An' yew wonder if its pleasure an' yew wonder if its 
pain, 

When they sing. 

Yew feel th' joy of livin' an' yew feel th' woe of death, 

When they sing; 
An' it sorter hurts yew roun' th' heart whene'er yew 
take a breath, 

When they sing; 
An' yer happy, an' yer sorry, but yew like ter hear 

'em sing. 
Fer it makes it all th' better 'cause th' sweet is mixed 
with sting, 

When they sing. 



83 



Aspiration, 

Upon the breast of some vile scum-clothed pool, 
Pure lilies lift their cups of lustrous white; 

They struggle through the death-engendering slime 
To bathe their stainless petals in the light. 



84 



The Pessimist. 

He sees the heavens mirrored in the muddy puddle at 

his feet, 
And deems the reach of his dust-blinded eyes 
The whole extent; the feeble beatings of his shriveled, 

cankered heart 
To him are echoes of the heart of God. 



85 



The Fain on My Face. 

O the rain on my face in the night, 
And the wind's strong arms about me, 

A tempest of rage and grief within, 
The tempest and storm without me. 

the rain on my face in the night, 
And the stars all blotted and hidden, 

The great black, scowling sky o'erhead. 
And the earth by wild winds ridden. 

O the rain on my face in the night, 
And a light in the window before me, 

A glimmer of hope in the murky dark 
That sheds its soft beams o'er me. 

O the rain on my face in the night, 
And love's dear arms about me, 

My head on the breast of one I love, 
And the tempest and storm without me. 



86 



Today is Best. 

Today is best, the past is dead and gone, 
Its joys and sorrows are but dreams, 

But idle fantasies we may as well 
Forget; they are but threadbare themes, 

Too childish for this day, too crude 
To mingle with our present schemes. 

Today is best; beyond our mortal ken 

The future all too dimly lies; 
Tomorrow, with its hoped-for roseate dawn. 

May never flush upon our eyes; 
Our blazing sun may now be plunging down 

The west, to never more arise. 

Today is best; 'tis close at hand; its skies 

Bend o'er us as a lover might; 
We feel no dread uncertainty — we know — 

And feel— and are— no fear nor fright 
Of what has been or what may come — we hold 

Today our own — 'tis ours — till night. 



87 



Huskin' Corn, 

'J'h' apples in th' orchard hang like globes of red an' 
gold, 
The cider-press is runnin' every day, 
Th' purple grapes er clingin' to th' well nigh leafless 
vine, 
An' th' peaches an' th' pears hev all been put away ; 
While th' men er in th' fields a huskin' corn. 

Th' farm house is all busy with th' work of cannin' 
fruit, 
An' sweet pickles stand in jars about th' floor, 
Th' smell of mince an' punkin greets th' hungry men 
at noon, 
An' th' apples dry in strings beside th' door; 

While th' men er in th' fields a huskin' corn. 

Th' frost has kissed th* flowers till they sleep th' sleep 
of death. 
An' th' goldenrod has turned to ashen gray, 
Th' tumbleweed is trundled by th' wayward autumn 
breeze. 
An' th' aster's purple bloom has passed away; 

Whije th' men er in th' fields a huskin' corn. 



Th' small grain is gathered an' th' threshin's bein' 
done, 
Th' pimkins shine like copper in th' sun, 
Th' stubblefields er tinted with th' green of after- 
math. 
An' th' milkweed pods er bustin' one by one; 

While th' men er in th' fields a hiiskin' corn. 

Th' days er growin' shorter an' th' sun is movin' 
south, 
Th' nights er growin' cool, an' long, an' still, 
Th' woods er bright with yellow an' th' fields er 
dashed with gold, 
An' th' shumack skirts with scarlet yender hill; 

While th' men er in th' fields a huskin' corn. 



89 



In Late October* 

The corn leaves clash amidst the dried-out fields 
Like paper swords that children use in play, 

The wild geese call across the dappled sky, 
As arrow-like they wing their southward way. 
In late October. 

The stubblefields are squares of rusty bronze, 
And strawstacks dot them with their heaps of gold, 

While through the uplands prairie chickens cry 
In trumpet tones, foretelling snow and cold, 
In late October. 

Across the prairies like a thing of life 

The tumbleweed rolls lazily and slow, 
And in the shivering breeze the goldenrod 

In tottering age turns white as winter snow. 
In late October. 

The skies are overcast with low-hung clouds. 
The days are full of haunting, old regrets, 

The wind swirls upward like a dancer's skirts, 
The dead leaves sound like castanets. 
In late October. 



9Q 



Thou. 

If I were deaf to all the sounds of earth — 
Denied this boon the world holds dear, 

-I'm sure that I should never know my loss 
If thou wouldst whisper in mine ear. 

If I were blind and all my days were dark, 
And thou shouldst meet me in my night, 

I feel that I would know thee, even then, 
And all my gloom be changed to light. 

If I were dead, and on the grassy sod 
Thy feet should lightly press, I know 

That I would struggle in the arms of death, 
Compelling him to let me go. 



91 



Unsatisfied. 

One day I wandered tlirough the mossy wood 

In search of fragrant flowers; 
I found them, wet with dew and rich with scent, 

Amidst the tangled bowers. 



But I soon grew weary or their lovliness, 

For high above my head. 
Amidst the crags, I saw a poppy flaunt 

Its crown of wanton red. 

I dropped the paler flowers at my feet; 

My one supreme desire 
Was but to gain the gorgeous painted bloom, 

That glowed with amorous fire. 

At last with hands all scarred, and bruised, and torn, 

I grasped the brilliant flower, 
When lo! its petals fell upon the rocks, 

A scattered, useless shower. 



ga 



And thus along life's way bright pleasures blooni, 

But those that nearest lie 
We scorn; we think that those beyond our reach 

Alone will satisfy. 



But when we have them in our eager grasp, 

The pleasures they implied 
But fade, and mock our deep desires, and we 

Are still unsatisfied. 



93 



Return of the Magdalene* 

Ave Maria! spotless one, 

Hear my prayer; 
I have no hope save thou alone 

In my despair. 

Ave Maria! see my shame, 

My agony, 
I who am lost, undone; 

Ah, pity me! 



Ave Maria! my bleeding heart 

I bring to thee, 
Cleanse thou its lust away, 

Oh, pardon me! 



94 



Ave Maria! the flames of hell 
Are in my heart, 

The fire consumes my helpless soul- 
Bid it depart. 

Ave Maria! spotless one, 

Hear my prayer; 
I have no hope save thou alone 

In my despair. 



95 



Via Doiorosai 

There is no music sounding through the day 
To cheer the marching toilers of the world, 

But grimly rings the harsh command of fate, 
And headlong on its way the herd is hurled. 

Necessity with cruel scourge "Thou must!" 
Spurs on the burdened millions of the earth; 

She grants them rest nor respite from their toil, 
And gives but grudgingly a dole of mirth. 

P'rom early youth to halting age he delves, 
The poor man, scarcely better than a slave, 

And earns at last in mockery a plot 

Of ground, the title to a pauper's grave. 

The curse is on the poor man in his chains. 
And in the shambles he is bought and sold. 

And it would seem, to reach the ear of God, 
A man must cringe and bring a bribe of gold. 



96 



Night, 

From my couch at dead of night I rise, and wide 
I throw my window. The shimmering, silvery tide 
Of moonshine floods the room with lustrous light, 
A glorious gift to me from the hand of night. 

The shadows of the trees in tremulous outlines fall 
In phantom pictures on my moonlit chamber wall; 
The myriad shadow-leaves with noiseless movements, 

slow 
In a phantom, breathless breeze, blow to and fro. 

Below me lies the city wrapped in soothing sleep ; 

No sound intrudes to mar the silence, calm and deep; 

The streets resound no more with hurrying feet; 

No passers-by their fellows warmly greet; 

No laughter rings in merry chimes upon mine ear; 

No sound of weeping nor of wrath I hear ; 

Soft sleep hath had her unmolested will, 

And bade all harsh, discordant sounds be still. 



97 



Then Memory, the voiceless singer of the night, 
Stands by my side in shimmering robes of white; 
With lyre in hand she sings to me of other days; 
With hand in mine, through by-gone paths she strays, 
And lo! the night seems peopled with the loved ones 

gone, 
And I no longer stand in the softened light alone. 

In the night with God, and memory, and silence, I 

feel 
A reverence deep, and solemnly I kneel 
And stretch my hands out through the silvery air. 
And lift my soul to heaven in one great, silent prayer, 
While through the night I seem to see great altar 

stairs, 
That reach from earth to heaven— my cares, 
A heavy load, I take, and slowly climb 
And lay them on the great white altar for a time. 



Noci, 

On Bethlehem's walls a glory falls 

From out the spangled sky. 
In squalid cave with straw-strewn pave 

The mother and baby lie; 
The dimpled king whose praises ring 

From angel choirs on high, 
"To God be glory, peace to men," 

And from the cave a loud "Amen!" 
The kneeling shepherds cry. 

The shadows lift, a starry rift 

Shines through the murky night, 
Across the world the light is hurled 

That makes all places bright; 
The Christ is born, behold the morn, 

No more let death affright; 
"To God be glory, peace to men," 

And from the skies a loud "Amen!" 
Exulting angels cry. 

LcfC, 

99 



On myriad walls a glory falls, 

This gladsome Christmas tide, 
Shines from above from God's great love 

Upon the whole world wide; 
All hearts are gay, grief's passed away, 

God's mercies still abide; 
"To God be glory, peace to men," 

And from the earth a loud "Amen!" 
The kneeling people cry. 



November. 

The year grows careworn and the wrinkled hills 

Are gray with approaching age; 
The trees are bald; they writhe their naked arms 

In slow and tortuous rage; 
The day begins in frowns and ends in frowns; 

A brief, bright smile appears 
At noon — then fades, a wan and sickly light, 

And ends in sighs and tears. 



Rest. 

My Mother Earth, upon thy fragrant breast, 
Tired, I throw myself full length to rest; 
My heart beats close against thy mighty heart, 
The tears, long frozen from my eyelids, start; 
'J'he grasses kiss and cool my fevered cheeks. 
And in my ear the soothing southwind speaks; 
And spent at last with the passion and pain of life 
Mine eyelids close, and I forget the strife. 
The struggle, and all my vain complainings cease, 
And like a child upon its mother's breast, 
Weary with wailing, sink at last to rest. 
Hushed in thy great arms to dreamless peace. 



I02 



Lococo* 

Lococo lives on Lightsome street, 
Hard by the fount of laughter; 

His house is built of blocks of fun, 
Prom floor to topmost rafter, 

And by the door a gurgling brook 
The sunshine chases after. 

Lococo sits and suns himself, 
The happy hours beguiling; 

No matter when you see the youth, 
You'll always find him smiling; 

With tangled sunshine in his hair. 
He sits the shades reviling. 

Lococo warbles all day long; 

His songs are so entrancing, 
That when the children pass that way, 

He sets them all to dancing, 
And when the dashing steeds go by. 

He sets them all to prancing. 



103 



Lococo knows no carking care, 

He never knew a trouble. 
He views the world as though it were 

An irridescent bubble, 
Drawn through the air by butterflies, 

That fairies harness double. 



Lococo lives on Lightsome street, 
Hard by the fount of laughter; 

His house is made of blocks of fun. 
From floor to topmost rafter, 

And by the door a gurgling brook 
The sunshine chases after. 



104 



Mother's Rag Carpet. 

Yew may talk of your carpets so fine, 
Made of velvets an' brussels an' sich, 

With ther fine, fancy shadin's an' hues, 
An' ther patterns so pretty an' rich, 

That jest shows ther fine, costly weavin' 
Through every richly wove stitch. 

But fer me, I'd fur ruther hev 

That strip of old carpet es laid 
On th' old kitchen floor long ago, 

Th' carpet that mother hed made 
Frum th' rags she sewed in th' evenin's. 

While us children run round her an' played. 

Fur I know every stripe es is in it; 

I could tell yew a story that run 
Jest like a thread clear through it 

Frum beginnin' till all of it's done — 
A story of smiles an' sum sorrers. 

Of shadders, an' spots of bright sun. 



^05 



There was fust a small piece of her dress, 
Of th' one she hed made when she wed ; 

An' th' one that's next to it's made 
Of a dress of her sister's that's dead ; 

An' thar close by is a stripe of 
Th' very fust trousers I hed. 

Thar's a stripe of father's old shirt, 
An' it's mixed with brave army blue, 

An' here an' thar — yes, I'm sure — 

Are spots of red blood shinin' through; 

An' away down thar in th' corner 
Is a piece of th' red, white an' blue. 

That carpet is made out of rags, 
Out of rags, jest rags, an' no more, 

But th' warp is a warp of dear memories, 
An' I'd ruther hev it here on th' floor 

Than all of th* brussels an' velvets 
You could bring through that big, open door! 



J 06 



Good Night, My Love. 

CTOod night, my love! I would that I might 

Forever stay and say good night to you ; 

The taste of your warm kisses on my lips 

Were worth the ransom of my soul. 

Beneath the marble of your brows two stars 

Flash all my gloom with light. 

Good night? Ah! no; I cannot say good night — 

Your arms about my neck I can no more resist 

Than does the tide the drawing of the moon ; 

Your sighs would cause my soul to hesitate 

To enter heaven, if I were at the dazzling port. 

But hark! The lark has wakened from his sleep, 

And pipes the prelude to his matin song — 

It sounds upon my ear a solemn knell — 

I must away — good night — a thousand kisses. 

Ye stars that gleam the darkened arch o'erhead, 

I envy you your faithfulness; through countless years 

Together twined you keep the constant tenor of your 

way — 
Good night, and yet again good night, till night is 

gone, 
And opalescent dawn unfolds her portals, and 'tis day. 



107 



The Old Unrest. 

Oh, the old unrest comes back tonight, 
A vague, sweet, half-forgotten pain, 

With these dead violets in my hand, 

And my eyes mist-filled with a hint of rain. 

I seem to hear that old, mad song, 
That old, heart-breaking, passioned strain, 

You sang that night — a memory, 

And these dead violets, for me remain. 



1 08 



The Place of Peace. 

A traveler searched through many years for rest; 

In vain he sought 
In every land beneath the shining, blue-domed sky. 

But found it not. 
At last came Death, in silence touched his tired brain 

And brought release; 
Tread softly, for in yonder grassy bed he found 

The place of peace. 



09 



No Matter, 

No matter how black the sky o'erhead, 

Nor how swift may fall the rain; 
No matter how steep the upward path, 

Nor how charged with grief and pain; 
No matter how weary may grow your feet, 

Nor how sick may grow your soul; 
No matter how sorely your heart may ache, 

Nor how sadly the dirges toll, 
Just live, and laugh. 

No matter if loved ones fade away, 

And leave you to walk alone; 
No matter if friends prove fickle and false, 

And your idols but senseless stone; 
No matter what ills the gods provide, 

Nor what good they deign to send, 
Tread bravely the thorn-strewn path of life, 

With hope to the very end, 

And live, and laugh. 



Resuffection* 

Out of the soil of discontent 

Spring lilies of peace, with hearts of gold; 
Out of the night of deep despair, 

The hope-white wings of dawn unfold. 

Out of the storm and stress of hate, 
The meek-eyed dove of calm is sent; 

Out of our senseless rage and grief 
Is born at last a deep content. 

Out of the wrinkled and withered husk 
The germ of life seeks warmth and light; 

Out of the noisome house of death 

The soul takes wing for its endless flight. 



All Is Good, 

Thanks, thanks for love and life, for all they bring, 
For love that shines amidst the shadows like 
The sun, dispelling night and dark; for life. 
Swift pulsing through the veins, glad life, full life. 
That soars aloft like some grand song among 
The arches of a vast cathedral; yea. 
And thanks for death, for peace, for sleep, a lull. 
An interlude between the sounding throbs 
Of life's great orchestra. 

We pour our thanks, 
Like swollen rivers in the spring, for all 
That comes; for every flitting picture limned 
Against the paling or the blushing sky; 
For every song of bird that thrills the dawn, 
Or soothes the dying day; for every flower 
That lifts its painted cup and spills Its wine 
Of fragrance on the ravished air. And, too, 
For every low of cattle on the hills; 
For every cry that stabs the silence with 



A shaft of quivering sound; for every leaf 
That trembled in the breeze, and now lies dead 
And brown among the gray old grasses, combed 
By harsh November winds. 

For every thought, 
No matter whether bright or dark; for peace, 
Or yet for pain; for pleasure, or for sting 
Of some great lash of sorrow; all, yea all 
That made the sum of days that now are past, 
The dear, dead days safe held in Memory's urn, 
Amidst the sweet rosemary of regret. 
And for the sordid present, prized the least 
Of all because so near, we lay our thanks, 
Like offerings on an altar. But 
Far above our gratitude for past 
Or present rise our thanks for days to come; 
The clouded future hidden from our eyes. 
Whose roseate skies, effulgent with the light 
Of one great, trembling star of hope, we see 
But dimly in our dreams. 



113 



We'll Meet Again. 

We'll meet again dear heart, fond heart, 

Beneath less ominous skies, 
And then Instead of grief I'll see 

A gladness in your eyes; 
Though circumstances now have built 

A barrier grim and high, 
Love tells me we shall meet and be 

United by and by. 



We'll meet again dear heart, fond heart; 

Be brave and do not weep; 
The world is vast I know, and far 

I sail the wandering deep. 
But distance cannot lessen love, 

Nor make our vov*'s less sweet; 
As sure as skies bend o'er us, love, 

Somewhere, sometime, we'll meet. 



114 



We'll meet again dear heart, fond heart; 

There is no adverse fate, 
However black it looks today, 

Our hearts can separate; 
Though seas and deserts stretch between, 

And years their rounds complete, 
In after years, somewhere, sometime, 

God means that we shall meet. 



I Don't Much Care, 

I don't much care if my pockets bag, 

With nothin' in 'em but air, 
Fer coins can't lighten a heavy heart, 

Ner drive away grief an' care; 
An' a vagabond's happier oftentimes, 

A sleepin' on sum back stair, 
Tlian th' man lyin' sleepless on his bed, 

Because he's a millionaire. 

I don't much care if I live in a hut, 

If love with me abides, 
Fer a palace may hide a broken heart. 
An' hatred an' strife besides; 
But the sweetest place outside the gates 

Of th' city beyond th' grave, 
Is a home whar love is the only lord. 

An' I am his willin' slave. 

I don't much care fer name an' fame; 

A few good friends er enuff, 
If they stand close by tew brace me up, 

Though th' way be, smooth er ruff; 



ii6 



An' wlien I come down at last tew tli' grave, 

An' sleep in my lonely bed, 
ril be satisfied with a ruff pine box, 

With flowers, at my feet an' head. 

1 don't much care if it rains er shines, 

If th' skies be blue er black, 
If I hev a little tew eat an' drink, 

An' a few old clothes fer my back; 
Fer life ain't made up of sun an' rain, 

Ner of what we eat an' drink — 
It's made up mostly of what we hope, 

An' of what we feel an' think. 



117 



The South Wind. 

South wind, drouth wind, cease your blowing, 
Let your hell-blasts cease their glowing, 

Shut your torrid furnace doors! 
See the cornfields seered and blasted, 
Pitifully burned and blasted. 
Writhing in the fiery burning, 
From deep green to yellow turning; 
See the prairies, thirsty, panting. 
Hot and scorching, hot and panting; 

Shut your torrid furnace doors! 
See the farmers deep dejected, 
All their fields are sad neglected. 
All their hopes are blasted, blasted. 
By thy hot breath burned and blasted ; 

Shut your torrid furnace doors! 
South wind, drouth wind, cease your blowing, 
Let your hell-blasts cease their glowing; 

Shut your torrid furnace doors! 



iiS 



Conventionality, 

'J'he giant stoops and walks with mincing steps 

To suit tlie pattern custom has decreed, 
AVhile pigmies strive with dwarfish strides 

To ape the fashion of a larger breed ; 
B or great and small must fit convention's mold, 

Must crush the ego, so the world may read 
A printed page all lettered with one style of type; 

And they who dare the accepted form exceed 
Become the laughing stock of mere machines, 

Who scoff at all that does not fit their narrow creed. 



iig 



Nelia, 

Cameo-faced, with great gray eyes, 
Tender and sweet as dawn, 

Wide, wide open, mystery filled, 
As the eyes of a startled fawn. 

Marble-browed and crowned with hair, 

Black as a starless night. 
With lips like rosebuds, pouting red, 

Parted with dazzling white. 



Violets. 

Violets, violets everywhere; 
Violets in her braided hair, 
At her throat, and 0! surprise, 
Violets in her velvet eyes. 



Pansies. 

Purple for shadows, gold for sunshine. 

White for the clouds on high, 
Brown for the earth that gave them birth, 

And blue for the azure sky. 



Pessimism. 

We are brave to sing, we children of the night, 
With but our vain imaginings for light 
To guide us in our endless flight. 

We are brave to laugh, we starvelings of the dust, 

Forever driven by a grim "Thou must!" 

From darkness gotten — back to darkness thrust. 



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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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